The ugly vestal approached Pharaoh, “Give me the ring!” Pharaoh, subdued by the words of the vestal, quickly removed the ring of gold and lapis-lazuli from his finger and surrendered Horus’s royal symbol to the vestal. She lifted the ring at the end of her arm. The large falcon, swift as lightning, plunged for her hand, grabbed the ring and flew away.
“In obeying the High Priest’s order, I lost my beauty and my youth, my lord Pharaoh, but I must leave you this last warning. You and your mistress, once reunited, will be the custodian of Isis and Osiris’s eternal passion. You will be under their protection. But you will have to live your passion in secret. Beware! and stay away from the ring, for Horus will watch relentlessly, plotting for an occasion to take you apart. “Should you grow apart, Jhustis will return to be a slave. She will call upon Osiris to take her back to the heavens, but to no avail. You my lord, without her at your side, will lose your powers for many years, until the moment that your hearts binds again in an eternal passion. So said Horus!”
The pyre ignited, the four animals started moving away from Jhustis’s body, following her soul. At the same moment, the vestal fell on the ground and turned to stone, a permanent reminder of Horus’s anger.
Memphis 1014 AD - The statue recovered
The flame of the Crusades had burned itself out. The sad fate of the little Christian kingdom, isolated from Europe and surrounded on all sides by bitter enemies, became each day more and more apparent. Finally, one by one, the places held by the Christians fell before the attacks of the Mamelukes of Egypt, and with this event, the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem was coming to an end. The great crusade would pause for a few centuries. Silence would reign along the shore that had, for so long, resounded with combats.
King Louis had promised to his followers wealth and affluence from this crusade. Today these promises meant little to the Count of Bourdeille, Lord General of the armies of Aquitaine. The Count was left behind in Memphis, in the middle of the Sahara desert, with the mission of protecting the rear of the crusaders’ army while they evacuated the Middle East.
Bourdeille was brooding over his misery, sitting on what appeared to be an old stone altar in the garden of the palace. His mind was wandering to his blessed land of Aquitaine, so close to his heart, yet so far, and for so long. His eyes were fixed on the ground to avoid the brilliant sunrays. He noticed a face protruding on the surface of the sand. He jumped to his feet and brushed the sand aside. “What a strange looking statue,” he thought, staring back at the repulsive features. “It looks alive.”
He called his captain who was standing nearby, “Have this statue wrapped with care and place it on my galleon. I will take it back to Aquitaine.”
The captain had the statue placed on a chariot. He was approaching the jetty to unload the package when he felt a cold wind rising from the desert, carrying forward a thick cloud of sand. His crew and the chariot were enveloped by the sand storm and he had the distinct vision of the face of an old woman buried deep in the cloud of sand and he heard her laughing maliciously.
Dordogne 1013 AD - The statue arrives in Dordogne
The cursed statue arrived at Larochelle on the Count of Bourdeille’s galleon. It was carried to the castle of Paussac in Dordogne. It is scarcely known that Paussac in the suburb of Bergerac, is the precise location where the universal vector originating from Sirius and moving through the heart of the sun, touches planet Earth every 1068 years. For this reason the village is revered by a few initiates as a unique site on our planet that polarizes universal energy.
The work crew had regrouped at the Chateau de Paussac. They were advancing with great difficulty through the oak forest. Despite five day’s work they had cleared less than a kilometer of the thick brush, their progress impeded by the added load of the heavy statue. The old captain had returned from the crusade with his master, the Count of Bourdeille. He was still dumbfounded by the lord’s order to bring this curious piece of stone and to have the master mason install the statue at the junction of the new forest road joining Paussac and Bourdeille.
“Go on, we have one month to complete this road linking our Lord Bourdeille’s castle with his sister’s castle of Paussac,” he exhorted his men.
While the crew was progressing, they turned at a right angle toward Bourdeille. The mason began to mount the baseplate to install the statue. Three men were lifting the statue with great difficulty, soaked by the warm dampness of the forest. The mason was finishing his work, locking the statue in place with heavy mortar. The crew withdrew a few steps, while the mason admired his job. From nowhere, they were enveloped by a thick misty cloud. In the darkness, the mason saw the face of his statue smiling maliciously. The cloud faded and the mason approached the face. The features had recovered their original appearance. Wiping his brow in consternation, he called for the men to continue their work through the thick brush of the forest ahead.
Chapter 1 - Justine’s Ancestors
“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set her free.” Michelangelo
Mamie Hélène, Justine’s grandmother, was born in the province of Charente Maritime, where she spent her early years. Larochelle was at the time a very active commercial harbor. Hélène was just seventeen when she fell in love. Gaston, her first love was a much older man. It was after they had been seeing each other secretly for a few months, that Hélène’s father announced he had accepted a teaching appointment in Dordogne. They were to move quickly, in time for the beginning of the school year.
“Wipe those tears Hélène. I love you dearly. You know in your heart that we are meant for each other. Life will bring us back together.” Gaston looked so strong and so brave. Hélène thought his dark eyes would melt her soul. “But life is so cruel to take us apart,” she cried. He stood up and whispered, “I will meet you at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon in our old hay barn my love.” Without another word, Gaston turned and promptly left.
Hélène was pacing the little barn nervously. Oh yes! She was eager for his arrival, to feel his body in her arms, yet why did she feel confused and so… fearful? His kisses tasted so good last evening and she could not wait to feel his powerful arms press her body against his. Somehow, she felt that she would have to surrender herself to him, to appease the desperate feeling of losing him. In her body, she did not think that she was ready. However, it was her soul that demanded to let him have her.
Her heart missed a few beats when the barn door squeaked open. Gaston came in smiling, and smoothly took her hands in his. “Dearest Hélène, I have not been living since I left you, I need you so much.” She closed her eyes and let her soul surrender to the caresses of his words. His lips pressed hers and his arms surrounded her waiting body. She felt herself lifted and placed gently on the hay. They were kissing passionately. She felt her clothes lifted above her head. His body was floating over her breasts and belly.
She ached for more caresses from his lips. She froze for a moment, when his manhood bore gently between her thighs. There was pain and then an urging burst of comfort from the soft movements of his penis entering her. She felt the tension overtaking his body and then he fell over her breathless. He gently rolled aside. It was a long moment before she finally opened her eyes. He was sleeping. His body was clinging to her side. She felt so warm inside, so good for his presence. Maybe he was hers, the man of her life. She began smiling to the late afternoon sun darting at her face, playing between the boards of the old barn.
A few weeks later, the family left for the south west.
It had been a few weeks since the family had settled in the new house in Bergerac. Helene’s father had begun his appointment at the Bergerac Lycée. Tonight, at the dinner table, he was recounting, with great enthusiasm, the warm welcome he had received from everyone. “This is going to be a great experience.” Hélène was hardly hearing his words. After many weeks, her heart had not left the little hay-barn in Larochelle.
All of a sudden she felt a pain in her groin. The more her father
talked, the sharper the pain became. She found the energy to stand and mumbled an apology. She ran up the stairs. She sat on the toilet, feeling the sweat rolling down her face. She felt something drop from her womb. It slid between her thighs and plopped in the water and the pain stopped. She turned and bent over the bowl, she felt a powerful urge to pick up what she saw. She took a towel, wiped the blood dripping down her legs. She then wrapped the little bundle of bloodied flesh and held it against her breasts. She could not hold back the tears rolling down her face. She stood and walked down the service stairwell. She opened the back door and disappeared into the cool September evening.
She was crying and still holding the little bundle to keep it warm when she arrived at the bank of the river. She sat for a while, pressing the precious package on her breasts. Between her tears, she saw in the moonbeam a little angel smiling at her. Deep in her heart, she felt the words of gratefulness for having conceived. Yet she understood that he was not ready for this life and that he would be waiting to meet her again in Eternity. The tears stopped and a smile invaded her face as she let the bundle slip in the dark water of the river.
She did not, to this day, hear of Gaston but deep in her heart remained the urge to visit the little barn in Larochelle. She visited her cousin each year, in the hope of finding him, prompted by a veiled memory, buried deep in her soul, yet so alive 25 years after her marriage to Victor.
Catherine, Justine’s mother is born
It took many months for Hélène to cope with the pain of her broken heart, first pained by Gaston’s absence from her life, and then by the brief visit of her Little Angel. As time went by, she was getting more and more lonely. Her few friends were left behind in Larochelle and she never had the urge to seek new relationships. She found refuge in her piano. Most evenings, she would take a stroll along the walls of old Bergerac.
One evening, she had stopped to read a plaque fronting the residence of a certain Guy de Larigaudie: “Here lived Guy de Larigaudie, Soldier of France, writer, explorer, lecturer and French journalist, born in 1899. He was killed at war in 1917 in the Netherlands.” She was so captured by her reading, that she did not notice the gentleman approaching. “Good evening mademoiselle! May I have the pleasure? If you would excuse my bad manners, Victor Obry at your service.” The gentleman bowed, lifting his hat. Hélène found his shy composure attractive and it took little time for them to join for regular evening walks through old Bergerac.
When he asked for her hand a few weeks later, she did not hesitate to accept. She felt that she would never forget her first love, but Victor’s kind and gentle manner would make him an ideal companion. Within the year, she was giving birth to a lovely little girl. When Hélène was delivering, she dreamed, or thought that she was dreaming, that little Catherine was emerging from her womb, carried on a beam of light by a chariot pulled by a white horse, with a monkey and a cat on its back and a red bird singing overhead. Raptured with her love for her little girl, Hélène felt warm and peaceful. She opened her eyes to find Victor standing at her side holding Catherine.
Catherine, Justine’s mother, would be their only child.
Chapter 2 - Justine’s mother
Rescue on the road to Bergerac Roumanière
In the course of the German occupation of France, Victor rose to prominence as the leader of the south west French Resistance. His feats of heroism against the Nazi occupation were carved in the hearts of many of his contemporaries. Many years later, when she was growing up, Justine would glow with pride when she walked the streets of Bergerac, hand in hand with her grandfather. She sensed in her heart that the respect from the neighbors and acquaintances was much more that a polite homage.
The German occupants had increased the reign of terror on the small south west community. On this dreary evening of 1943, Catherine, now a budding teenager had been waiting anxiously after hearing her father whispering to uncle Louis about an attack on a German convoy. Earlier, she had observed the Citroen leaving the courtyard and move up the road. She had seen them, night after night, leaving on perilous missions. She could never get used to her father and uncle exposing their lives constantly. “This is so that you may have children and raise them in a country that is free of this tyranny,” Victor would answer sadly.
Tonight Victor and his brother were on a mission to rescue an American spy captured by the Nazis. “What a nasty evening. This fog is thicker than bouillabaisse. I am beginning to wonder if the Krauts will not change their mind and move the prisoner tomorrow, at first daylight.” Louis was listening to Victor’s mumbling, but his attention was focused on the country road. “I hear something, Victor. Stay out of sight!”
The first motorcycle appeared, its headlights hardly visible. Victor started across the ditch. “Open fire on the escort Louis, I will secure the prisoner in the limousine and return to give you support.”
They could see the motorcade moving slowly and stop at the tree barrage that they had laid out earlier. Louis jumped on the road, opening fire with his German machine gun. Victor had already opened the car door and shot the driver in the head. The blood splattered on the face of the German officer sitting in the back.
In a flash, Victor saw the German’s gun pointed at his head. He shifted quickly. With the explosion, he felt the bullet graze his ear. In the same motion, he fired his gun and the officer fell forward. The American spy was already opening the door and he jumped on the road. Victor turned to see Louis kicking the three bodies lying around the car for signs of life. A fourth German was sprawled face down near the ditch. From the corner of his eye, Victor caught him lifting his pistol and firing. The American fell to the road. Louis and Victor emptied their last bullets on the German.
They moved towards the American. “He is still breathing, Victor.” Louis removed his belt and tightened a piece of his shirt on the agent’s upper body. “This will stop the blood. Let’s move him carefully. We will have a better view of the wound at the house. Get the car closer.”
Louis drove the Citroen from the thick brush and jumped out to help Victor ease the agent’s limp body on the back seat. “What a heavy dude, he must have been one of those American football players,” Louis said, catching his breath. As they drove away, Victor was observing the American lying on the back seat. He was breathing with difficulty. Victor turned to Louis, “Poor Boone, this is real bad luck. After nearly four years underground, he was captured by a routine patrol yesterday, and now seriously wounded.”
The French Resistance Headquarters in Bergerac
The ancient mansion, an integral part of the Bergerac age-old fortress, was the French Resistance secret HQ. Hidden partly by a maze of walls, the rear of the mansion concealed secret passages and rooms serving as meeting places, communication centers and weapon caches. From the beginning of the German invasion, many of the rooms became a safe haven for hiding British and American spies.
On entering, Victor and Louis dragged Boone up the stairwell in silence and opened the secret door behind the third flight. They were placing him on the bed when Catherine slipped in behind them, wearing only her nightgown. She ran to the sink and filled a pail of warm water. “Father let me clean your face.”
Victor frowned his impatience. “This is nothing. The bullet grazed my ear. I will clean it myself. You better attend to our guest.” She grabbed the towel. “Move away Louis. You can go and rest. You must be exhausted. I will look after him,” said Catherine. “Good night, Catherine,” Victor turned toward the door with Louis. “You are the best at this work. We will try to talk to him in the morning.”
The American was unconscious, and she proceeded to clean his lightly bleeding wound. Catherine undid the belt, releasing a gush of fresh blood. She quickly removed the piece of torn shirt and applied pressure on the wound with a clean towel. She held her pressure for a few minutes to stop the bleeding. When she removed her hand, she saw that the blood had stopped. She removed the towel very slowly. She brought the lamp over the wound. “Just abo
ve the heart and the bullet missed the arteries. The American could be lucky after all,” she pondered out loud. His breathing seemed more regular, yet still fast. She started cleaning the wound. She applied a generous portion of Mamie’s ointment. The potion had been passed on by her long lost relatives and Mamie swore by its potency. She had been told the family anecdote, relating how this very ointment had saved many ancestors from the great plague. She covered his shoulder with a dressing.
Looking at his face, she found his masculine features attractive. Even with his eyes closed, he exuded strength and determination. She covered him with a warm blanket. She moved toward the door, leaving a small lamp lit in case he would awaken. She carefully closed the secret door behind her.
The next morning, she came up the steps to find the secret door ajar. She pushed it open to see that Victor was sitting on the bed, holding the American’s hand. He turned to her. “He is still unconscious, but I find that his complexion is normal and that his breathing is more regular. You did an excellent job of fixing him up. Louis and I will leave for a few days, but Mamie should be coming back from Larochelle tomorrow to help you. In the meantime, I know that he is in very good hands. Please try to get some hot soup into him.” Victor walked out leaving her at his side.
She tried to feed Boone a few spoons of soup, but to no avail. Bending over to feed him, she was disturbed by the strong odor emanating from his body. She recalled that he had been a prisoner of the Gestapo. He was certainly questioned, maybe tortured. She had heard so many accounts of German cruelty.
The Labyrinth of Passion (romantic experiences) Page 2
